


A kick in the teeth is good for some - a kiss with a fist is better than none

by fvartoxin



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Don't even @ me., Have written worse. Regrets? What regrets?, I don't know what to say other than 'I was planning on writing this anyhow'., Implied/Referenced Abuse, It's been so long., M/M, Other, TECHNICALLY still a handjob?, Thank you! I AM terrible!, That feeling when you kind of forgot how to write your own interp of Hugo Strange., Trans Jon, transgender character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:47:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23294236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fvartoxin/pseuds/fvartoxin
Summary: Love sticks, sweat drips, break the lock if it don't fit.I haven't written smut in literal years, please don't stab me. Oh look, it's something else that illustrates a...less violent event in my personal Scarecrow's backstory, surprisingly.They did not last, as expected.
Relationships: Jonathan Crane/Hugo Strange, Scarecrow/Hugo Strange
Kudos: 12





	A kick in the teeth is good for some - a kiss with a fist is better than none

**Author's Note:**

> Eventually I decided to stop editing this because I was panic-mincing my own words far too much. So hopefully this is still cohesive? Cheers. This is a weird, weird alternate universe.

Arkham Asylum’s latest head hadn’t _had_ to agree to this, and yet here he was. Was his situation a tad cliché? Improbably so if mass-produced pornography was anything to go by, but at least the door was closed; and hopefully locked, given how the mechanism had been sticking lately. Did he care about the potential ramifications of this predicament? Not particularly. He could stand to shave an hour or two off the clock every once in a while, given how often he was on his feet. This was almost justified, depending on how one looked at it. Almost. 

The niggling dysphoria surrounding his genitalia was pushed aside as it always was. Considering the stark difference in nerve endings it’d be downright impractical to take it up the ass if he planned on getting even a small amount of pleasure from any sexual contact. He’d cracked _that_ proverbial case years back. That, and he was getting a little old to care for the matter of dignity. Given how this hell asylum/’rehabilitation center’/prison (pick one!) ran, he doubted anyone would have the balls to fire him anytime soon. 

All of this in layman’s terms meant that, at the moment, he was half sitting-half leaning back on the rickety chair that’d come with what was probably the world’s dustiest mahogany desk, pants and underwear practically around his ankles, coat hastily draped on the hat rack to the front of the room of all things…bracing himself against the filing cabinet just behind and watching goddamned _Hugo Strange_ huddled under the aforementioned desk, pleasuring him with practiced fingers. How nice.

“You know,” he began in his usual hushed, husky tone; and only after several moments more of reveling in the oddly comforting silence that typically had gone hand-in-hand with their sessions (or at least the ones where they weren’t actively attempting to kill each other mid-screw), “I can’t say yeh look comfortable under there. Must be hell on the knees.” 

“To be candid, Jonathan, I was only hoping someone would walk in on you,” a thin-lipped smile – albeit one barely visible in the shadow of the desk’s underside, and _especially_ not so to someone with vision as poor as the part-time Scarecrow’s (although he wouldn’t officially adopt the alias until several years after this particular moment) – graced the words. “Wouldn’t that be a sight?” 

“One would hope they didn- _Nngh_.“ Ahh, and here his breath hitched, then stopped for a solid several seconds as his associate’s lubed thumb slipped under his clitoral hood, grazing the flushed glans of the testosterone-enlarged organ. Reflexively, one foot slammed against the drawers of his desk. Weakly, he cleared his throat, and spared a glance at the heavy compendium (of what else?) atop his work surface as if to reassure himself that it was still there. “ _Jesus H_. Warn me before you do that. I _did_ lock the damned door, Strange. Ain’t an idiot.”

He wouldn’t. “Oh? Last I checked, the mechanism still sticks.”

“Was planning on getting that fixed,” he let his dark eyes drift away from Hugo and his ministrations for another moment to the yellowed, cracking plaster walls of his office. Without a doubt, that part of the décor hadn’t been updated since the shit had been installed in the 1930’s. Although, truth be told, he honestly didn’t mind. In the less hectic moments, which naturally were few and far between to begin with, he amused himself by spotting patterns in the cracks. Like the cloud-hunting he so rarely did as a child, really. “Haven’t had the damn time,” he sighed out, shifting ever so slightly in an attempt to get more comfortable; momentarily disrupting the other doctor’s rhythm in the meantime. 

There was a notable pause, and a fairly agonizing one in fact, before his on-and-off sexual partner got back to it. Yet, Jonathan Robert Crane was nothing but patient. The burning in his gut coupled with his ache for release _was_ annoying as hell, but he’d rode out far worse in his 40-some years on this Earth. Besides, he didn’t fancy getting a lamp hurled at him. If _anything at all_ was consistent about his on-and-off bedmate, it was that Hugo was temperamental as hell beyond that cool façade. So, while he wasn’t exactly walking on eggshells, he was cautious. 

For a second, he wondered if the air freshener, continually pumping out that faux-autumnal scent as it was, would be able to entirely mask the scent of arousal that blanketed the area behind the desk. The upholstery of his chair would certainly have to be disinfected, but…

He was jolted from his thoughts once again, lips parting as he choked, then swallowed with a struggle. His pulse climbed further, and once again his heart stuttered; chest seizing in a dizzying manner as always. It hadn’t taken long for the heat to envelop him in the first place, but now it was stifling, settling deep and stuffing his head as though he had an especially bad head cold. 

He always _had_ dreaded both the turning point (as it were) and aftermath of orgasm in small part, if only because he felt physically ill for days afterward with no real explanation other than a thing medical in nature and poorly understood. 

Yet, here he was. 

Stubborn as the day he was born. 

Well, _and_ wet. 

And his hair had begun to naturally work its way loose from its elastic confinements, that was an added annoyance. Not that he’d had the luxury of being able to take a pair of scissors to his head in months. 

“You know, I really _am_ beginning to wonder if your silence is so deeply ingrained.” He’d stopped, presumably because his arm was getting damned tired, and was looking directly into Crane’s eyes. “It isn’t wholly unappreciated, yet…everyone has limits.” Despite the lighting conditions underneath the desk, it wasn’t hard to miss the tent in his own pants. In due time, that’d be taken care of. 

“You’d be hard-pressed to hit mine,” he grumbled headily once the forces of the universe had (graciously) allowed him to continue drawing air into his lungs, and then lapsed into silence as he took a few deep breaths in succession. Hell yes, oxygen. At the least, his face was possibly flushed; given the more ash undertones to his skin, it didn’t get very red to begin with. So, who knew exactly? And, given how he’d long since set his glasses on the desk for safekeeping, everything was blurred. And uncomfortably warm, for that matter. On the bright side, he hadn’t passed out! 

“It’s more likely I’d stop your heart first,” he admitted matter-of-factly, and took a moment to readjust his rose-tinted glasses with his clean hand. “I think I’ll save _that_ for another time. Unfortunately, for the time being you’re too _valuable_ ,” he lingered on the word, “to most everyone here.”

Though breathy, he let out a sharp laugh in response. “ _Oh_ , I’d like to see yeh try. You would, though. You absolute bastard.” 

“I’m glad we’ve come to an understanding.” 

That earned a rare smile, this time; however brief and uncomfortably filled with teeth it was. “Naturally.” 

Hugo chuckled softly as someone rapped at the door, then stilled, fully intending to drink in the situation that’d soon be playing out to his back.

“Dr. Crane?” 

Ahh. Leland. But also, crap, Leland. But also, ‘he kind of expected this’, Leland. He hastily straightened his posture, grinding firmly down into the seat and pulling it a little closer to the desk with one leg before sighing heavily, shoving his horn-rimmed glasses back onto his face, and beginning to fiddle with the psych anthology in front of him. “Come in, child. I can spare a few seconds.” If she didn’t suspect something on one count or another, he’d be amazed. Though younger than several on staff, Joan always had been one of his sharper colleagues, and he expected that quality to continue to serve her well. 

Besides, after a certain point it was somewhat difficult to conceal that you were having sex in your own damn office. Or, were being jerked off by a coworker (who on normal days fully intended to get you killed and make it look like a tragic accident, because it wasn’t as if you’d give up your job position otherwise) in your own damn office. 

With a small amount of effort, the door was opened. She poked her head in first, then emerged in full, carrying a stack of papers in one arm. “Doing some light reading, I take it? These are for you,” and so, she crossed the room and unceremoniously plopped them onto his desk before turning back around in a single fluid motion, “and you really should get that lock fixed. Dr. Carver wanted to talk to you earlier, too.” 

He ran his tongue around his dry lips, then flipped a page of the book before responding; making a valiant attempt to sound less out of breath in the meantime and in all honesty failing to a degree. Damn those somewhat-underdeveloped lungs. “Duly noted. Thank you.” He’d have to read those later. “I’ve been planning on it, but what locksmith in their right mind wants to venture into a damn _lunatic asylum_?” 

Joan nodded, and lingered with her hand on the doorknob. “She’s in the breakroom. Don’t keep her waiting too long, you know how she gets sometimes. Also.” The pause was, if she was being candid, mostly for dramatic effect. “You’re a little too tall to hide everything behind furniture, harvestman. Your shirt’s askew, among other things. On an assumption…be grateful that just about everyone else around here is too corrupt to care about staff misconduct.” 

“I,” he coughed out the word as his clit spasmed, and thumped his pigeon chest with a skeletal fist before continuing, “Y’have a point, dear, and I _do_ apologize for your having to see me like this.” 

“You’re playing with fire, but I’d be shocked if you didn’t know that already. I’ll see you around later, I take it?” With that, she took her leave, though the sound of her heels clacking down the hall was muffled by the door’s closing. 

And oh, how he’d burn. 

But, blessedly, that would come later. Not as late as he would’ve liked, but, no one person could have everything. From the moment he’d entered this odd deal with Strange, he’d known it was only an attempt at powerplay; and on whatever subconscious a level, the man was _afraid of him_. How delectable. (To think, he could get off to that alone.) None of this meant he wouldn’t enjoy these encounters for what time he had, however. In Gotham City, one took what they could get. 

Even if ‘what they could get’ happened to be psychologically manipulative on both sides, with a helping of physical and perhaps sexual abuse. 

Oh well, he’d never been one for healthy relationships. (Funnily enough, years later he’d connect with one Dr. Harleen Frances Quinzel in part due to that truth; though she’d have to drag it from him.) He waited until he was sure she’d gone. Then, he closed the book with a _snap_ and, again sticking out a long, twig-like leg – glowering as he usually did, mind you – pushed the chair back. “Feel free to get up now.” 

Hugo obliged, dusting off his pants as he did so. “Anticlimactic, but I expected little else from Joan. She doesn’t mince words and isn’t the type who’s nosy enough to pry into the personal lives of others.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised if the proverbial legion picked _her_ next.” Despite the situation, he couldn’t resist rubbing salt in the wound. 

While his almond-shaped eyes narrowed at the quip, he declined to comment. 

“Anyhow.” Dismissively, he waved a hand in the air, and habitually looped a strand of hickory-colored hair that had fallen into his face around a finger for the briefest of seconds before letting it go. “Shall we, or is this meeting adjourned fer the time being?” 

“I hope you haven’t learned to expect this kindness.” He pursed his lips as he mused this out loud, and raised his clean hand to stroke the thin beard adorning his jawline. With all the grace of a mountain lion stalking hapless prey, he advanced. 

“Ha! Cut the bull, we both know damn well this’s a matter of convenience. Not to mention that we’d stab each other in the back soon as someone turned their head a little too far in one direction.” Once more, he slouched; and proceeded to bite back an eerily catlike hiss of irritation, previously-broken nose scrunching as a sudden breeze coming in through the ventilation ghosted over his partially-clothed body. “Someone’s messing with the central air again, I see.” 

“Please, you’d stab me in the _front_ if you thought you could get away with it. Let us be honest here.” A mirthless chuckle followed. 

“Thankfully, Hugo, I value my job too much. I’m _flawed_ ,” he scoffed, jerking his chin pointedly in the other’s direction and arching an eyebrow, “not completely blind. Or senseless, on that line of thought. Knowing you, you’d likely live, anyhow. If only to spite me.” 

“Unlike the others, you’re witty. I’ll give you that.”

“One would hope,” he sighed, clasping a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Considering that I do try. Now… _Business or pleasure_? Your choice.”


End file.
